Within seconds, Warin, too, lay unconscious in the center of the pavilion. Soon he was trussed hand and foot and adequately gagged, his condition camouflaged in the folds of a heavy cloak. After dragging Warin to a place across the chamber, Derry made his way out of the pavilion, keeping to the shadows.

MORGAN lowered his eyes uncomfortably and looked down at his feet, forcing himself not to let his gaze wander toward Richenda standing a few feet away. The wine had been drunk and the words said—all the words that could be said for now. If he killed Bran tomorrow, it could destroy the love this incredible woman bore for him. And yet, if Bran did not die, there was no future whatever for any of them.

He raised his eyes to hers and realized abruptly that he had never held her in his arms, never really even touched her except for their earlier hand clasp and that brief moment the night before, when they had shared their Deryniness—and tomorrow it might be too late. Tomorrow the chance might be gone for all eternity. His eyes searched hers for a long moment, reading her indecision also. Then he was folding her into his embrace, his lips drinking deeply of her kiss as the candles dimmed in the chamber around them.

After what seemed like only an instant, they drew apart, and Morgan stood a long time gazing into her eyes, her fingertips resting lightly in his hands. But he had known, from the moment he came here tonight, that he could not stay. Honor would not permit it.

And so, after a time when the only sound in the tent was the music of their racing hearts, he took his leave of her, touching her silken fingertips lightly to his lips before gliding out into the night. As he disappeared into the darkness to join Kelson and the others, he could not know that another lurked nearby, under the thrall of an enemy spell, but awaiting the chance to make his move.

Richenda paused in the doorway of the tent and watched her visitor depart, then turned to gaze around the now so empty tent. The candles had flared to new life with his going, but somehow the tent still seemed dark. She wondered again how she had happened to fall in love with this tall, golden stranger not her husband, raised slightly trembling fingers to her lips and touched them gently. Then, still smiling, she moved into the inner chamber and knelt beside her sleeping son, her smile slowly fading to concern.

What would the future hold for them after tomorrow? Regardless of the outcome of the duel, there would always be Bran’s spectre looming above their heads, in life or in death. For she was bound to Bran by this boy, by bonds more adamant than mere words or law. And if Alaric Morgan killed Bran Coris tomorrow…Where did loyalty lie?

She considered what she had always been taught, but she was no longer certain the answers lay there. A woman’s loyalty lay with her husband, or so they said. But if one’s husband were a traitor, then what? Was a woman bound to hate the man who brought that traitor to justice? Somehow she did not think so.